


Painted Blind

by Moonllotus



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Artist Baz Pitch, Awkward Romance, Baker Simon Snow, Best Friends, Coffee Shops, Falling In Love, Human Simon, Human Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Love, M/M, Model Simon, Painter Baz, Romance, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, another coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 13:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonllotus/pseuds/Moonllotus
Summary: “Are you asking if you can draw me like one of your French girls?” Snow looks at me with a crooked grin on his face.The urge to kiss him is the strongest it’s ever been. “Don’t be an idiot, Snow.”Or - the one where Baz is an artist and Simon is his muse.





	Painted Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehoneyedhufflepuff (The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/gifts).



> No beta. 
> 
> This is my second Carry On fic. I did my best.

_“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind”_ \- William Shakespeare

  **SIMON**

Agatha is manning the till today, it’s just as well since I’m tits at it. I tend to stutter and stammer and am honestly poor with my words. I think the only reason Ebb hired me was out of pity, and she’s too nice to fire me.

Plus I think Agatha pulls in more clientele. At least she gets more businessmen, it’s because she’s so damn pretty. She has this long blond hair that she keeps in cute braids at work and large brown eyes, and she puts on this demure persona when people come in. Which I guess keeps us in business, it’s always a busier day whenever she’s the first face customers see.

“He’s back!” Aggie grins over at me and waggles her eyebrows just before the door chimes as someone new enters the shop.

I don’t have to ask her who she means. He comes in twice a week and orders the same ridiculous thing - a large pumpkin mocha breve with extra whipped cream. It’s disgusting, I've tried the drink myself after the hundredth time of making it. It’s so sweet that it hurts my teeth, it’s worse than a candy bar.

He doesn’t come off as the type of bloke to have a sweet tooth, I’d never have guessed it by the look of him. Looks can be deceiving I suppose, it doesn’t help that he’s so attractive. We’re talking tall, dark, and handsome. He reminds me of a classic vampire, with his high cheekbones, and widow's peak, and his black hair falling in light waves to his collar.

He’s a footballer too, I’ve seen him and a few blokes from a local team come in on Sunday’s for drinks. I’ve seen him in track shorts and a jersey, so I know he’s fit as fuck underneath his respectable button-up shirt and trousers. I know that his caramel coloured complexion is, for the most part, even throughout his body. I also know just how muscular his impossibly long legs are (really, how can it be allowed for someone to be all legs like that? It’s just not right).

The first seven months of knowing him I sort of hated him. He’s got this way of getting under my skin just by the way he looks. Now? I think he’s growing on me, like a fungus.

“Hi Basilton!” Agatha chirps as he comes up to the register.

Basil nods at her, but he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even fucking try. For someone who enjoys such extreme sweetness, he’s so sour. “Agatha.”

I’ve already finished creating his beverage by the time he’s done paying. He arches a brow at me as I put the drink before him.

“Baz,” I say by way of greeting, because unlike him I have manners. There’s also the fact that no one calls him that, except me from what I’m aware of. I originally said it because I thought it annoyed him. (It doesn't.)

“Snow,” He responds. I fucking hate it. He calls me by my middle name. He only knows it because Penny once chewed me out and used my full name while he was there. I wanted the world to swallow me whole the first time he called me it.

He sits at the bar and I fumble my way through orders as he watches me work. I fucking hate when he decides to do this. Yet he does this every few weeks as if trying to take in my movements. As if critiquing how I tend to lumber around the small space - I am by no means graceful.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I spit at him as I mix the blend for a latte.

He arches his brow at me again, unimpressed. I fucking hate that he does that to me. It always leaves me bloody flustered, and I think he fucking knows it. It’s because of his stupidly handsome face.

Baz’s face is the type made for a pout. He’s got sad, droopy eyes, like Bette Davis. His brows are thick and perfectly groomed above them. His mouth is wide and fuller than it ought to be and if he’s not sneering with it, he’s frowning. His frown just emphasizes how pouty he is. Seven months of knowing him as a regular and I still can’t fucking stand his mouth.

His eyes watch my hands and I try not to compare my stubby fingers to his long, elegant, ones.

I usually try to avoid Baz’s eyes. They’re this colour I’ve never seen before, like a sort of blue and green muddied together to make gray. Sort of like the ocean during a storm, I guess, that’s the best thing I can compare them to. They’re really pretty, which is unfair. If Baz weren’t such a dick he’d be perfection personified.

I’ve no clue what Baz does for a living, but it’s something that gets him enough money to afford overpriced coffee twice a week. It’s enough to have him dressing sharp and smelling like some ridiculously expensive cologne. Even from across the bar, over the scent of coffee, I can catch a whiff of bergamot and cedar. I actually really like his cologne, it’s a nice scent that I wish I could afford to wear.  

Baz doesn’t reply to what I’ve said, instead he takes the lid off of his beverage and licks the overflowing whipped cream from the top. I have to look away from him or else risk the chance of getting frustrated. Really, he should just buy a damn tub of the stuff so he can eat it from the source instead of licking at it obscenely.

I know I said that he’s growing on me, but that doesn’t stop the fact that everything about Baz just boils my blood.

“Until next week, Snow,” Baz says after watching me work for several heart thundering minutes. He’s out the door before I can respond to him.

“You’re so obvious about how you feel that it’s embarrassing,” Agatha tells me once he’s gone.

The shop is empty and it’s probably the first time all day that no new customers have come in. I hop onto the counter next to the sink to give my feet a quick break, Aggie pulls the small stool that’s kept underneath the till out and sits daintily.

“What’re you talking about?” I play stupid while stretching my arms above my head and rotating my wrists so that they’d crack. I’ve coffee stains on my fingers, and it leaves me feeling slightly mortified that Baz fucking saw that. He’s so fucking posh and here I am looking like a fucking mess. 

“Your crush, Si,” Agatha rolls her pretty brown eyes.

“I don’t have a crush,” I tell her, but my face is burning. I can feel it heating up, I can tell I’m blushing. I’m  one of those people who are unfortunate enough to always have a ruddy complexion that gets worse with embarrassment.

She scoffs at me. “I wish Penny would let me smack some sense into you.”

“Penny isn’t my mother!” Only she totally is.

“You do know why Basilton comes in here twice a week, don’t you?” Agatha is leaning forward now, arms resting on her knees and voice lowering as if she’s telling me some giant secret.

“Probably to see you,” I shrug. It’s true that a lot of men come to the shop when she’s working. Baz only ever says goodbye to me, never hello. Then again, he doesn’t talk to her that much either. “And to get that disgusting drink of his. Honestly, I think ingesting that much espresso in one sitting is unhealthy. He might actually have a caffeine addiction.”

Not that I care. Let Baz ruin his too fit body however the fuck he wants to. Fucking git.

“Simon,” Agatha sighs heavily, “he’s been coming in here for over half a year now and you’re still not getting it.”

“Not getting what?” I ask as I stare down at my trainers. I need new ones, these are a bit shit and I’m on my feet too much to not spend more money on shoes. The good thing is that the uniform Ebb has us wearing are just plain black tees and jeans, so I don’t have to worry about that. Not that it matters, it’s all hidden underneath a red apron. We wear red visors too in order to keep our hair out of the way. But the shoes, I need better ones.

I glance over at the empty tables. Everything looks relatively clean, but since we’re lacking customers it’ll be a good time to restock the napkin dispenser and the sugars, to wipe down tables and sweep the floors. I like working here because it keeps me busy.

I’ve been speaking to Ebb about selling pastries. I went to school to be a pastry chef and would appreciate putting my degree to use. We’re in the works of refitting the back room into a kitchen, and I love Ebb for that. I think the shop would do better if it goes from strictly coffee into being a cafe.

“Simon,” Agatha’s voice catches my attention. “Basilton comes in to see you.”

My heart skips a beat, “what? No, he doesn’t.”

She gives me an annoyed look. “I know this is hard for you, but stop being daft.”

“I’m going to clean up the floor,” I say. I’m not being daft. Agatha is just imagining things.

“You can’t ignore me just because you don’t want to think about it, Si,” Agatha says as she washes items behind the counter as I wipe down tables.

“We’re not talking about this,” I tell her.

“Okay, then _I’ll_ talk about it,” Agatha chirps happily. When did she start behaving so much like Penelope? I knew I should not have allowed the two of them to hang out together so much. “I think that this will be good for you.”

“You’re my ex-girlfriend,” I point out. “Shouldn’t this be awkward for you?”

“We dated back in school. We were eighteen when we broke up, we’re adults now. It’s been eight years! We’ve both seen other people since,” Agatha shakes her head. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I don’t need a relationship to be happy,” I tell her firmly. It sounds like something Penny would say, it sounds smart and right. I don’t need a relationship to be happy.

“I know that!” Aggie throws her hands up in surrender. “It’s just...the way you two are around each other. The way you two look at one another and act. I think it’s a good thing. I think it could be amazing. You’re one of my best friends, Si. Just, think about it?”

“I’m not even attracted to him,” I sigh as the fight drains out of me. I'm a terrible liar.

“Okay,” Agatha lets the topic drop. She starts talking about her horse, and the latest competition she’ll be entering in. She works for Ebb part-time, and only so that she doesn’t have to live strictly off of her trust fund. Not like it matters, her parents pay for a lot of her equestrian needs.

She’s a bit of a romantic sometimes, I’ve no idea why when she claims to be aromantic. Romance and I just don’t go well together. I’m a terrible boyfriend, so I try to avoid relationships as best as I can. Not that I’m thinking of being Baz’s boyfriend, that’s just ridiculous. This is deflection at it’s finest. I’m a twenty-six-year-old man, I’ve dated both men and women in the past. I completely understand what attraction is. But I can’t seem to figure out this dance between Baz and me, because that’s what it is. My therapist and I have been talking about these feelings for about six months now.

I’m fairly certain that what I feel toward Baz isn’t a crush. No, I think I’m in love with him.

* * *

**BAZ**

It’s been seven months of being haunted by someone who is too thick to realize it. I dream of what his mouth would feel like. What his hands would be on my body. What his body would be like under my hands.

These dreams are incessant and a little annoying.

Yet, they’re stimulating - and not in the way that typical sexual fantasies are.

I’m washing the charcoal off of my fingers, getting deep into the cuticles and my nails bed. I've got a few more months until my exhibit opens and I’m still working on pieces. Not major ones, those have been done for months, but smaller ones. Ones that will still sell all the same. There was a concern for a few weeks that I would not have been able to produce as much needed for the gallery. Until I stumbled across my muse.

Simon is not what most would expect as inspiring. I’ll lump myself into that group of people. Honestly, he’s a bumbling fool. Too happy-go-lucky, too positive, too expressive. He’s quick to anger, quick to forgive. He laughs too easily and makes jokes every other sentence. In many ways his simplicity reminds me of a child. Wouldn’t that be the easiest way to view him? With his freckles, moles, bronze curls, and wide blue eyes.

Unfortunately, he’s also tall (though about three inches shorter than me) (thankfully), with broad shoulders, his wide torso tapers off into a narrow waist and his angles are nicely squared. Square hands, square jaw, square shaped.

His cheeks always have a natural flush, which does nothing but enhances the constellation on his face. He has three moles on his cheek, starting from the hinge of his jaw and creating a triangle formation clustered together. He has moles on his overly long neck, and his Adam's apple is entirely too showy when he swallows.

He has lovely lines.

I could easily imagine him sculpted. Reminiscent of a Greek or Roman statue. However, the marble wouldn’t do his blemishes justice, there is no way to show off his moles or freckles.

When I first entered the coffee shop during winter I was nearly struck dumb at the beaming smile he threw at me as he took my order. 

I knew then that I had to draw him. I needed to put him on paper. I took my order and hurried home to work. It wasn’t enough. I would have to watch him, to see how fluid he moved (admittedly he’s quite the klutz, but it’s endearing), to drink in his body language. During this time I’ve spoken only a handful of words to him, but somewhere along the line I’ve offended him in such a way that he barely speaks to me. It doesn’t matter, I like his reactions to me. I like to absorb him as he works.

He’s always got a bit of coffee staining him, and his eyes are such an unremarkable shade of blue that it’s difficult to duplicate them with paint. To put him on canvas has been the greatest challenge of my career.

My newest works are missing something extra that I just can’t seem to bring to life. It’s infuriating in the worst of ways, and it’s lead to me going to the small shop more than once a week. Admittedly the coffee that I typically order is delicious. (I have yet to find anything similar to it elsewhere.)

That last time I went to the shop Snow snapped at me to “take a picture”, and I wish things were that simple. Taking a photo won’t allow me to see the movement. It would be stilted. I suppose I can just ask him to model for me. It would be easier than dealing with Agatha and Penelope’s knowing gazes whenever they see me come in.

I wish I could say that I come to the shop strictly for coffee and inspiration. That would be a lie, if that were the case then I would not have gone after a game of football. I brought Dev and Niall with me because they were itching to see the bloke who has been stealing all of my attention. I admit that I’m a little infatuated with him. Perhaps more than a little. I’ve been told that it’s an unhealthy obsession, but no one quite understands that he inspires me.

Still, I've never been the type to lie to themselves. I’m attracted to Snow. Wholly and unashamedly attracted to him. I want to be underneath him in the most wicked of ways. I want to touch him, I yearn for it. On top of that, I actually like the bastard. I wish I didn’t. Compared to me, he’s an oaf. Albeit a beautiful one.

“Welcome!” Snow’s voice carries from somewhere behind the counter.

The shop is empty today, with the exception of Penelope who is sitting at a far table with books spread around her. Penelope doesn’t even work here, but she’s here nearly every day around lunchtime. She typically brings outside food into the shop and either breaks bread with Agatha or Snow, whoever is on break at that time. I’ve run into her a few times on the way to or from the shop, and I can admit that she intimidates me just a little. She knows too much, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she seems to be Snow’s best friend, I’d have to murder her.

When Snow pops up from crouching behind the counter, his professional smile drops and his pink cheeks flush darker. “Oh, hey Baz.”

He’s the only person to call me that. I prefer Basil or Basilton, but he shortened my name after the first few times of my coming into the shop. Surprisingly I do enjoy being called ‘Baz’, it warms me and causes my traitorous heart to flutter and skip. So I call him Snow. I do it because no one else does it. I do it to be special so that he always knows that it’s me.

“Large pumpkin mocha breve?” He asks, and without waiting for me to respond, punches in my order.

I hand him my card before the total is even amounted, “what if I want something different today?”

Snow’s movements falter, he peers up at me with wide eyes, “did you?”

“No,” I respond, and I see his shoulders slump in relief. “I’m just saying that you shouldn’t assume, Snow.”

He gives me a glare, but his ears are red so I know he’s not serious about it. He hands me back my card and turns the iPad monitor over to me for my signature along with the option to have my receipt emailed to me. Once I’m done he swivels the iPad back over to his side before stepping away from the till to get my drink ready.

Penelope is watching this exchanged openly. She doesn’t even pretend to be discreet, although I suppose I can respect her lack of tact. If it were my friend, I would have been watching too.

I analyze him as he works, watch how the dim lighting above bounces off of his curls, giving them an almost ginger tone. Aesthetics aside, he lucked out in the genetic lottery. He’s all rose golds and bronze, my hands itch with the urge to touch and recreate.

“Snow,” I find myself saying as he’s spraying the overindulgent amount of whipped cream on the top of my drink. He always puts more than necessary, it peeks over the lid and I have to open it to eat some of it just for it to fit.

“Yeah?” He isn’t articulate in the slightest. What the fuck do I honestly see in him that tugs at me so?

“I was wondering,” I shifted a little closer so that we’d have some semblance of privacy. I’m very much aware that Penelope is watching this scene unfold before her. I wonder what story she’s attached to it. “I’m an artist, I was wondering if you’d be interested in modeling for me? I would pay you for your time.”

“Oh!” Penelope squeaks from her seat.

I ignore her and keep my eyes on Snow. His face is a pretty pink, and I’m resisting the urge to poke it.

“You’re an artist?” He repeats, surprise colouring his tone. I can’t help but wonder what he thought I did for a living before revealing this.

“A rather successful one, yes,” I tell him while taking the lid off of my takeaway cup to lick at the whipped cream. “I should warn you that if you agree to this, I can be rather - it’ll be invasive. As in, I’ll have to touch you at some points. Again, I’ll pay you handsomely.”

I could hear Penelope practically hold her breath while waiting for a response.

Snow swallows, and I watch the movement with rapt attention. I want to recreate that. That fluid movement of a muscle tightening underneath the skin. I watch to touch his throat, to feel him swallow under the pads of my fingers. He’s got a mole underneath his jawline that I thirst for. The flush on his face is slowly making its way down to his collar, he always has the most dramatic of blushes.

“Are you asking if you can draw me like one of your French girls?” Snow eventually asks me with a crooked grin on his face.

The urge to kiss him is the strongest it’s ever been. “Don’t be an idiot, Snow.”

I place my cup down and reach into my pocket for my wallet, taking my business card out to hand to him. It’s black with white lettering, professional and trendy. Yes, I have business cards, it has my name, number, email, and website on it.

Snow takes it from me as if it’s a bomb ready to go off. “Neat.”

“Call me and we can arrange a fee if you’re interested.” I say to him, “until next week, Snow.”

Until next week, this is always how I say my goodbyes to him. I feel pathetic because I know that what I really mean to tell him is that I love him. I love you, Snow.

I leave the shop feeling overwhelmed, and also proud of myself. I asked him to model for me. After all of these months, I finally gathered my courage and did it. I hope he reaches out, otherwise, I may just bring my sketchbook and pencils with me and openly watch him all day at work. And he wouldn’t even be compensated for it.

I take a swig of my coffee and revel in it. It truly is the most delicious beverage I have ever ingested.

* * *

**PENNY**

“Have you contacted him yet?” I find myself asking a few days after the entire exchange with Basilton. We - Agatha, Simon, and I - are out to dinner at a local pub. I’ve just finished my term at University (I’m going for a masters degree in psychology), and both Si and Aggie have tomorrow off. We figured now was a good night to get sozzled.

“I have not,” Simon answers before taking a deep swig of his ale.

Agatha frowns heavily, picking at her plate of chips, “Si, he wants you to model for him. That’s such an amazing opportunity.”

This is the truth. Behind Simon’s back, I actually looked up Basil’s work.  It’s very abstract expressionism, bold colours and harsh lines. Not at all what I would expect from someone who comes across as so posh. But I like it, I like the works that he has up online, everything is quite breathtaking. He has a way with colours that awes me.

“I say go for it,” I nod to myself. I might be a little pissed already, I’m celebrating finishing my term damn it.

“Me too!” Agatha agrees. Of course, she would. Aggie is a little vain, she cares about her looks and would be honored to be someone’s art model. (If Basil asks me to model for him, I would be humbled and honored too).

I hide my knowing smile behind the lip of my glass as we both watch Simon sputter. “His stuff is really good.”

Simon sighs, “I know, I’ve been on the website.”

This is slightly surprising. He’s not the type to do something like that without telling me. He runs a lot of his decisions by me, actually. Simon is a little insecure and a lot anxious with anything. He’s lucky that I outright adore him as much as I do.

“What’s stopping you from doing this?” I find myself asking.

Simon pops a few chips in his mouth, “he’s just a bit of a prick.”

“Try again without lying,” I say easily. Agatha is right about his crush, it’s almost unbearable. It’s cute too, I’m not above admitting that.

“We’ve never even had a proper conversation,” Simon states, “and then he asks me this? Isn’t this a little personal?”

“Maybe you inspire him,” Agatha shrugs.

“She’s not wrong, doesn’t he go to the shop twice a week?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. “He’s probably going to see you, Si.”

Agatha and I exchange a glance. We’re pushing for this a little too hard.

“Fine, I’ll call him tomorrow,” Simon shrugs, he runs a hand through his hair, “at least I’ll be getting paid for this.

* * *

**SIMON**

Baz is an intimidating person.

I do agree to model for him, although I don't know what he'll want from me. I've seen his work, the ones available online are similar to Jackson Pollock. I honestly don't get it, but it looks pretty intense. Just like how Baz is now.

When I called him last week and agreed to this, we met with his manager and set up a direct deposit. I'm getting paid a hefty amount per session. Sessions can be as long or as short as they need to be, and it’s double pay if Baz needs me to stay past ten at night. Food and beverages are included in each session. The amount of times I will be needed is indefinite, but apparently, Baz has an upcoming showing in November so this should be over by October. Still, I’m making a large amount in the next six weeks, nearly as much as I make working for Ebb. My savings account is thanking me for this decision.

Really it's not a bad gig, at least not on paper. But now? Sitting in his studio on a stool with the sunlight behind me isn't bad. Having Baz Pitch put his hands on me to move my face around and to see how the lights play across me makes my heart pound. His fingertips are calloused and I’m trying not to shiver as he traces a few of my moles.

I swallow uselessly and he hums as he watches my throat bob. I will give credit to him, he did tell me that this would be invasive. I know he warned me, I just didn’t think of how often his hands would be on me. His long-fingered, elegant, hands.

“Swallow again for me,” Baz says, it’s the first words that he says to me in nearly an hour.

I peek at him through my lashes. He has my head tilted back, and my throat exposed, and I almost feel like one of those love interests in a vampire movie. Like I’m just waiting for him to bite me. He looks like a bleeding vampire right now, I wonder if he sparkles under direct sunlight.

I swallow, the pressure of his hands on my throat cause my breathing to hitch.  Baz hums.

This is entirely too erotic.

Suddenly he’s off of me and he’s mixing paints to create unique colours. I just watch him silently, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to talk to him while he’s creating. I’m not sure if that will ruin his process or whatever. I’m getting paid a decent amount for doing this and I don’t want to mess it up, and not only that, but I don’t want to mess Baz up.

“You can listen to music or something,” Baz suddenly tells me, as if sensing my discomfort with the silence.

“You sure? I don’t want to mess you up,” I tell him truthfully. I want Baz to thrive, I want him to do well and kick this gallery’s ass. I want him. Plain and simple actually, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m not some great seducer, I’m just Simon.

He glances at me from behind his paper. He’s not using a canvas, apparently, he has to make sure that the colours are correct before doing anything more permanent. Somehow I’m not surprised that he’s such a perfectionist.

“I’d rather get more of a feel of you,” He says it simply as if he’s not giving me heart palpitations, “put on whatever you’d like.”

His eyes are a bright gray, entirely too clear, and the sunlight behind me bathing him just the same. He doesn’t sparkle, but his golden brown complexion is a little too much for me to handle. I can feel my palms begin to sweat. I’m a naturally anxious person, it comes from growing up in group homes and foster families, from never having anything stable. Stability and I are not friends.

Instead of thinking about it, I take my phone out of my pocket and put on YouTube, I can handle watching random music videos or play-backs of footie games.

“You can stand up and walk around too if you’d like,” Baz says, but he’s not looking at me.

I’m glad he says that. I’m relieved that this isn’t a type of portrait that he’s painting because I’m not sure if I could sit still for too long. I put on my 90’s playlist and get up, stretching my hands over my head and arching my body, enjoying how my spine pops.

The walls in the studio are blank, stark, white. The windows take up an entire wall and are floor to ceiling. We’re in his flat, which is bigger than the shoebox that I live in, the view of London is amazing. I’m fairly certain that he owns the entire top floor of the building, which may include roof access if the stairs on the balcony are any indication. I can’t imagine living somewhere like this, it’s so upscale that I’m terrified of even scuffing the hardwood floor that I’m currently standing on.

I can feel the late August heat through the windows, warming the room exponentially. I run hot as it is, the added warmth is causing me to become drowsy. This moment feels more like I’m dreaming than living.

The skies are bright blue, and I watch people scurrying along on the pavement. Typically I don’t enjoy silence like this, it makes me uncomfortable. With Baz, though, it’s not like that. I sit on the floor, staring out of the window and just letting Mazzy Star wash over me. This is peaceful, I wonder if this is how Baz often feels when he creates.  When I bake it’s mindless, I use my hands and I feel accomplished with my work every step of the way. I wonder if painting is like that.

Baz suddenly appears beside me and sits, taking my free hand and tracing my fingers idly. Observing. God, he’s always watching me, and I’m always left breathless whenever he does.

“This is the hardest I’ve ever seen you think,” His fingers have blue paint around the cuticle. This is the first time I’ve seen him looking anything other than impeccable.

I could answer him a number of ways. I could tell him to sod off, easy and casual. We have never really spoken much in the past, this is more insight than I could have imagined. He’s pressing against the bone of my wrist, thumb brushing against the freckles of my skin. “Why did you ask me to model for you?”

Baz lifts his gaze from my wrist to my face, he wets his lips and I stare. “You have lovely lines, and I like your colours. You’re vibrant.”

There’s something else that he’s not saying, and I think I get it. I think if I tug hard enough I can grasp it with both hands. I think I want to.

“Vibrant?” I repeat.

“You’re like the sun,” Baz’s voice is low. His gaze shifts away from mine and he’s removing his hands from me. “And I’m crashing into you.”

I grab him then, linking our fingers. I bring his hand up and press a soft kiss to his inner wrist, because I can because he lets me. From my peripheral, I can make out the soft smile that he’s trying to suppress. He’s so soft,  I would never have guessed it.

I want to kiss him on the mouth. I want to ask him out to dinner, on a date. I want to see where this would go between us, I have a feeling that it’ll be great.

For now, I hold his hand in mine and lean into him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my fics and want more feel free to follow me on **[tumblr](https://moonllotus.tumblr.com/)**!


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